


Mon Amour, Mon Ami

by alexanderavery998



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Angst, Betrayal, Cannibalism, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Dark Will Graham, Death, Friendship, Gore, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Heartbreak, Love, M/M, Manipulation, Murder, Murder Husbands, POV Hannibal Lecter, Pining, Pining Hannibal Lecter, Pre-Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Season 1, Season 2, Season 3, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-03-26 18:27:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19011400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexanderavery998/pseuds/alexanderavery998
Summary: The many times that Hannibal Lecter didn’t realize he was falling in love with Will Graham, and several where he knew it was already too late.





	1. Au commencement

**Author's Note:**

> **IMPORTANT UPDATE:** this fic is most likely (>99%) never going to be finished, for several reasons. The biggest is that I’ve moved on to less heavily canon-based stories, so I’m just no longer interested in it. Sorry to those of you who were really invested; I have other Hannibal stories to choose from, so hopefully you can find something more recent on my profile that you enjoy! Thank you to everyone who liked this and encouraged me along my journey. I appreciate you!
> 
> _I cross-post on AO3, Wattpad, and FFN as @alexanderavery998. If you find my works somewhere other than these 3 websites, please let me know, because that means they have been reposted without my permission._
> 
> This fic is, by nature, a self-indulgent one; I just reallyyyyy wanted to get into Hannibal’s head and play in there as he falls in love with one very grumpy, disheveled, cuter-than-he-has-any-right-to-be empath. Dialogue from the show will be marked with bolded quotation marks (❝❞). Enjoy!

**_Au commencement_**  —  _in the beginning_

☙ ⛾ ❧

Hannibal Lecter notices several things upon first glance of Will Graham.

The man is unusually tense. There is a nervous energy about him, jittery, agitated, that manifests itself in his hair and his sloppy attempt at professional clothes. Yet there is an intelligence and a keen sense of perception hidden underneath the outer layers that intrigue Hannibal. This is the same man of whom FBI agent Jack Crawford spoke so highly, so glowingly, although he knows that Jack is unaware of just how complex the inner workings of Will’s mind are. Otherwise, he would not have asked Hannibal to profile him. But Jack had some preliminary ideas, the most important one being that Will has the ability to empathize with serial killers. He gets in their heads, retraces their steps, _understands_ them.

Hannibal is a serial killer, and nothing intrigues him more than exceptional intellectual company. Even more so when he contemplates the possibility that a man who can empathize with killers could easily be one or become one himself.

Yes, Will is someone who he wants to get to know better.

Hannibal lets his eyes wander across Jack’s bulletin board, tracing each abduction from its pin on the map to the photos of the victims. They look very similar: pale skin, brown hair, brown eyes. All abducted from college campuses across Minnesota. It’s obvious that this kidnapper, whoever he is, has a type. The final body is the most telling: Hannibal recognizes a fellow cannibal’s handiwork when he sees it, even if its elegance is marred by the man’s inconvenient remorse over killing this particular girl.

Remorse will certainly be his downfall.

❝Tell me, then,❞ he says, giving Jack a fleeting glance. ❝How many confessions?❞

❝Twelve dozen, last time I checked. None of them had any details — until this morning. And then they _all_ had details.❞ Jack sits down, and Hannibal turns to face him. He looks decidedly frustrated, leaning back in his chair and fiddling with one of his pens. ❝Some genius in Duluth PD took a photograph of Elise Nichols’ body with his cell phone, shared it with his friends, and then Freddie Lounds posted it on TattleCrime.com.❞

Hannibal lets his eyes wander over to Will to catch his response. It’s beautiful how expressive his face is. A muscle works in his jaw as he takes a breath, and the rise and fall of his shoulders is nearly imperceptible. ❝Tasteless.❞

Hannibal works to keep the amusement off his face, unable to resist the pun that so easily presents itself. ❝Do you have trouble with taste?❞

He is rewarded with the slightest glance from Will in his direction. After a long pause, in which Hannibal goes back to scrutinizing Jack’s board, Will says, ❝My thoughts are often not _tasty_.❞

So, he finds dwelling on other people’s murders unappetizing. Interesting.

❝Nor mine,❞ Hannibal says as he turns away from the board, thinking of how Will might see his killings. ❝No effective barriers,❞ he adds, in an attempt to spurn the conversation on.

❝I build forts,❞ Will says, lifting his coffee to his lips.

❝Associations come quickly,❞ Hannibal observes.

He is amused at Will’s quip, ❝So do forts,❞ after Will has swallowed his mouthful of coffee.

Hannibal sits down in the chair next to Will and takes the coffee that Jack has prepared for him. He turns to Will and lifts the cup to his lips, but he doesn’t even get halfway before he stops. Not only will Will not meet his eyes, but he hasn’t even glanced in his direction since he sat down. It’s rather rude, but more than that, Hannibal is miffed that Will doesn’t seem the slightest bit interested in him.

❝Not fond of eye contact, are you?❞ This time it’s Hannibal’s turn to take a convenient sip as he waits for a response. It’s not good coffee.

Will lets out a sigh. _Probably not used to being called out so blatantly_ , Hannibal thinks.

❝Eyes are distracting. You see too much, you don’t see enough...and —❞ Hannibal is delighted when Will turns toward him, even if he isn’t looking him in the eyes, ❝— and it’s hard to focus when you’re thinking, um, ‘Oh, those whites are really white,’ or, ‘He must have hepatitis,’ or, ‘Oh, is that a burst vein?’❞

Hannibal chuckles at the last line, partially because it’s a clever quip, but also because Will has finally met his eyes, and for several seconds, at that. His eyes are artful, though hard to classify. From the side, they looked bright blue. But from the front, in the shadow of his forehead and glasses, they look almost brown. _Probably hazel_ , Hannibal decides; it’s the eye color that can look blue, green, gray, and brown, all in the same day.

But Will isn’t done talking. He’s moved so quickly from joking to intensely serious — and almost dangerous — that Hannibal takes a moment to appreciate not only the depth of his feelings, but also his natural inclination toward layered façades and manipulation.

❝So, yeah,❞ Will says with dismissive, almost arrogant, finality, ❝I try to avoid eyes whenever possible.❞ He immediately turns away, breaking their eye contact. ❝Jack?❞

He’s leaning on his support system, hoping to get away. Hannibal contemplates letting him escape, but there would be no fun in that. He isn’t used to conversing with someone who can so readily keep up and who shows so much promise. Why not prod him a little further?

❝I imagine what you see and learn touches everything else in your mind.❞ Hannibal chooses his words carefully and is rewarded by Will stiffening up and meeting his eyes again. ❝Your values and decency are present, yet shocked at your associations, appalled at your dreams.❞  _I can help you acquire the taste for such dreams._ ❝No forts in the bone arena of your skull for things you love.❞  _Nor should there be. Let me help you, Will._

His words hit their mark. Will looks almost as if Hannibal has physically slapped him across the face, and his voice cracks with his next words. ❝Whose profile are you working on?❞ Will turns to face Jack, his voice now becoming angry. ❝Whose profile is he working on?❞

Hannibal shifts in his seat, satisfied with the garnered response. ❝I’m sorry, Will. Observing is what we do.❞ He reaches for his cup, readying another well-timed sip to hide his amusement. The coffee is still bad. ❝I can’t shut mine off anymore than you can shut yours off.❞

Will leans forward in his seat, eyes trained on Jack. ❝Please, don’t psychoanalyze me,❞ he growls in the lowest voice Hannibal has heard from him yet. ❝You won’t like me when I’m psychoanalyzed.❞  _It’s more of a threat than a request,_ Hannibal notices.

Jack looks particularly frustrated. ❝Will —❞

But Will is already getting up out of his chair, speaking in a lighter tone, one laced with sarcasm. ❝Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go give a lecture...on psychoanalyzing.❞

Will gathers up his things and is out of the room before Jack can protest, but it seems carefully calculated to feel unrushed, to feel more like a mic drop than a retreat. _Interesting._ The gears in Hannibal’s mind are already turning. Will Graham is clever. Exceedingly clever. He’s perceptive, deceivingly reserved, and more than capable of maintaining eye contact when he chooses to. He makes connections almost faster than his own thoughts can follow them, and he has a natural penchant for manipulation and deceit.

Hannibal is hooked.

His mind is whirring so fast that he hardly registers that Jack has started talking until halfway through a sentence.

❝— like that, Doctor. Perhaps, a less, uh, direct approach.❞

Hannibal looks up to meet Jack’s eyes as if he’d been listening the whole time. He takes a moment to choose the response that best gives Jack a psychological profile of Will without revealing the other things on his mind.

❝What he has is pure empathy,❞ Hannibal says, letting that sink in a moment before continuing. ❝He can assume your point of view, or mine, and maybe some other points of view that scare him.❞ He sees the gears in Jack’s mind turning. _Took him long enough._ ❝It’s an uncomfortable gift, Jack.❞ He leans away, his eyes roaming over the crime scene bulletin board. ❝Perception’s a tool that’s pointed on both ends,❞ he says, just as a brilliant idea unfurls its wings and showcases its beautiful colors in his mind. ❝This cannibal you have him getting to know... I think I can help good Will see his face.❞


	2. Un cadeau emballé

**_Un cadeau emballé_** —  _a wrapped gift_

☙ ⛾ ❧

It doesn’t take Hannibal long to get on the next flight to Minnesota. He has frequent-flyer accounts under several different names, complete with individual identities, passports, IDs, and bank accounts. He chooses Monsieur David-François Dubois for this trip, a private chef who caters and hosts intimate meals.

His alternate identities are quite clever, if he is allowed a moment to boast.

Hannibal lands at the Duluth International Airport that evening and collects his bag. He hasn’t booked a hotel room yet, as he doesn’t know how long this venture will take. He has everything planned out except for the victim itself. He isn’t worried, though. If he has gone this long without being detected by Jack Crawford or the FBI, he won’t get caught for a trifling thing such as this.

His line of thinking is confirmed when he accidentally bumps into a young woman on his way out of the airport, jostled by the crowd. Before he has a chance to apologize, she turns around and blows a mouthful of cigarette smoke in his face.

Hannibal blinks away the sharp, bitter sting of smoke. The girl’s eyes are brown. White skin. Brown hair. Nearly the same height and weight as the other girls. He can’t pinpoint her age beyond nearing or in college, but that’s all he needs.

Practically gift-wrapped.

He waves away the smoke and coughs, a tad impolitely. “Please excuse me, _mademoiselle_ , I did not mean to bump into you.”

She glares at him with an undisguised sneer and waves her cigarette in the air. Her nails are bitten down to the stub, her fingers not yet stained yellow from tobacco use. A garish purse hangs from her arm, complete with fake rhinestones. “Yeah, yeah, that’s what they all say. If you’re hitting on me, I’m not interested.”

Hannibal blinks, caught off-guard despite himself by the extent of the young woman’s rudeness. “I assure you that is not my intention.”

“Yeah? Well, then get lost, I’m waiting for my older brother and he’ll beat the shit out of you if you even think about trying anything.”

Hannibal resists the urge to smile; he couldn’t have planned this better if he had tried. He holds up his hands in mock surrender and takes a step back. “No need, _mademoiselle_ , I will be on my way.”

The girl sneers and blows another mouthful of smoke his way. He’s not going to be able to get that lingering stench out of his nostrils for hours. He mulls that inconvenience over in his mind as he debates his next course of action. He doesn’t know this woman’s name or where she lives, so he’s at a disadvantage there. But maybe...

A couple of minutes later, he’s found it. The long pig was smoking an illegally-imported spearmint-flavored cigarette from Germany, one of the cheapest brands on the market and an unusual choice. Only one of the cars in the airport parking lot carries the same odor, albeit much fainter than what rolled off the offending subject. Taking a quick glance inside confirms that it is most likely hers; fluffy pink dice just as garish as her purse hang from the rearview mirror, and old receipts and wrappers litter the interior. A carton of cigarettes is stuffed underneath one of the back seats.

It only takes one well-aimed stab with his pocket-knife to ensure that one of the back tires will slowly lose air. Hannibal takes note of the car and its license plate number — a gray 2007 Dodge Charger, BKH-236 — before making his way to the area of the lot where his rental car is parked.

A representative from the rental company is waiting with his keys. She is very bland, plain, and for a moment, Hannibal considers that she nearly fits the victim profile. It would be so much easier to take her than the smoker. But he resists, if only because he doesn’t want to get any blood in the rental car.

He paid ahead of time when he booked his plane ticket, so he takes the keys and settles himself into the rental. His suitcase sits in the passenger seat with his smaller carry-on bag. Now all he has to do is wait.

He is good at waiting.

Eventually, as the light seeps out of the sky, he sees the young woman approach her car. It is a pleasant surprise that she is alone; she must have been fibbing about being there to pick up her older brother. It is not unusual for his prey to sense when they are in danger, but for her fear to work in his favor is a special treat.

As planned, she doesn’t immediately notice the leak in her tire. He carefully follows her at a distance as she pulls onto U.S. 53 and heads north. The tire lasts a surprising 20 miles. The sky is getting dark as he pulls over behind her. Even though they’re on a four-way highway, there are no other vehicles around except for the occasional semi-truck that roars by without paying them any attention. She is standing by her car on the side of the road, cursing at her flat tire. He steps out and approaches her.

The grateful look on her face turns to fear when she recognizes him.

“We meet again, _mademoiselle_ ,” he says. “Need any assistance?”

☙ ⛾ ❧

It is easy to subdue her; he can barely feel her struggling as he suffocates her to unconsciousness. Once she is safely in the trunk of the rental, he pulls back onto the highway and follows U.S. 53 to its intersection with Minnesota 37. Then he takes 37 towards Hibbing, Minnesota, turning off onto a side street before he reaches the tiny downtown.

It takes him a few tries to find a house with a stag head. He knew he would find one eventually, so he is grateful that he doesn’t have to waste too much of the night searching. The head barely fits into the backseat of the rental car. He drives back down the side street until lights from the town are mere pinpricks in the distance and stops by an empty field.

Once his suit is on, he opens the trunk to retrieve the young woman. Tears stream down her face as she struggles against her gag and restraints. He would drug her, but he doesn’t want to ruin the meat. It suits his situation, anyway; the unknown cannibal treats his victims kindly, and Hannibal has no problem doing the opposite.

He pulls her out of the trunk and hits her temple against a rock, knocking her out. She will only be unconscious for a few minutes at most, so he works quickly. He places the rocks artfully and mounts the stag head on top. Everything has to be just so. It is a perfectly calculated move — he wants to see if Will Graham is as skilled as Jack Crawford claims he is. Part of him is prepared to be disappointed, to be called into Jack’s office only to find that the FBI is unaware that there is anything different between this killing and the last one. But he has hope.

He has hope that Will is somebody who can actually _see_ him.

Hannibal strips the victim of her clothes and lines up two of the sharpest points on the antlers with the fleshy area between the bottom of her ribs and the top of her pelvis. It takes one large thrust to drive the antlers through her lower back and out the other side. She twitches under his hands as she is brutally awakened, but at this point, she is weakened from the struggle and being knocked out twice. He ignores her muffled cries and presses down on her shoulders, driving two more points through her. This time, it is not as easy; her scapulae and thick wall of muscle padding get in the way of a smooth entry. Finally, he drives the smallest points into the backs of her upper legs and steps back for a moment. Inspects his workmanship and confirms that he has mirrored the previous victim’s wounds satisfactorily.

Hannibal lifts up one of his chef’s knives, lets it glint in the moonlight. The stuck pig can barely keep her eyes open even as he stands over her with the knife.

“How nice of you to presmoke your lungs for me,” he whispers, and then slices expertly into her chest, basking in the spilled blood that gleams black in the moonlight.

Before he leaves, Hannibal makes one more round to make sure that he didn’t miss anything. The tape and gag are gone; there is no way to scream without lungs. Her arms and legs hang free, no longer restrained. Everything is exactly how he wants it to be: a clever test for Will Graham, and a big fuck-you to Jack Crawford and the FBI.

He considers this a job well-done.


	3. Des oeufs brouillés et de la saucisse

**_Des oeufs brouillés et de la saucisse_** — _scrambled eggs and sausage_

☙ ⛾ ❧

He takes the earliest flight available back to Baltimore after one of the shortest naps of his life. He doesn’t need much sleep to function properly; he is unsure as to whether it is a genetic gift or something he has trained into himself. Regardless, he feels the strain he has put on his body over the last 24 hours when he gets off the plane and grabs his bag. Just as he was able to get his knives through customs under the cover of being a private chef, he brings the lungs through under the guise that they are a pig’s.

Technically, neither of those statements is incorrect.

When he gets home, Hannibal put the lungs in the fridge. Then he busies himself with cleaning his suit and hanging it up in the basement to dry. His phone rings mid-afternoon. Hannibal is slightly surprised when he picks up the phone and hears a familiar voice.

“Hello?”

“Dr. Hannibal Lecter, this is Jack Crawford with the FBI. I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty to search for your number so I could call you.”

Hannibal does mind, but he lets it go. Jack must’ve found the body, which hopefully means that Will has passed his test. He is letting Hannibal in on the case, which is another bonus. And if the urgency in Jack’s voice is any indication, Jack’s feathers have been ruffled by the appearance of another body.

Good.

“Agent Crawford. How may I help you?”

There is shuffling on the other end of the phone. “I would love to chat, but I’m on a time crunch, so I’ll just cut to the chase. We’ve found another body.”

Hannibal strolls into the kitchen, pulls out a bottle of wine, and sets it on the counter. “Same killer?”

Jack lets out a frustrated sigh. “The victim fits the profile, and the killer was clearly aware of how the previous killings were executed, but Will insists that this is a copycat.”

“Another cannibal running loose.”

“He cut out her lungs while she was still _alive_ ,” Jack says, sounding disgusted. Then, slipping into what Hannibal is sure was his real reason for calling, he says, “I’m worried about the effect on Will. I’m going to be in court tomorrow, but I want somebody to keep an eye on him. Go with him on his rounds, make sure he’s okay. I need him at maximum sharpness for this case.”

Hannibal pours himself a glass of wine. “You want me to fill in for the day, so to speak.”

“If you are available, it would be greatly appreciated, yes.”

There it is again, the same attempt at manipulation that Jack tried to use on him during their first meeting: flattery and effuse gratitude. It doesn’t work, but something else pulls him in. After a moment of reflection, he concludes that he is curious as to what will happen next. It can’t hurt to get a glimpse behind the FBI curtain.

“I can be there first thing tomorrow morning.”

Jack gives him the details before he hangs up. Hannibal allows himself only a short moment to ruminate over this development before he makes dinner, kneading the air out of the lungs and expertly slicing them. Thankfully, the lungs don’t show any sign of disease and the meat smells fine. It would’ve been a tremendous waste if they had turned out to be inedible. Some of it he sears and tosses in a pan with liquor, while the rest he sets aside for sausage to bring to Will in the morning.

After dinner, Hannibal takes a quick shower and packs his bag. This time he will be flying under his own name. It is an early bedtime for him, considering how early in the morning his flight is and how he will need time to prep and properly store his planned breakfast.

Before the sun has risen, Hannibal is up. In the adjacent room, the Badinerie from Bach’s second orchestral suite plays on his record player as he prepares breakfast. He pays careful attention to the ratio between the sausage, eggs, and tomatoes before putting the meal into two separate containers and packing a thermos of hot coffee.

Hannibal takes a nap on the plane and is grateful when he lands in Duluth and picks up the rental car that the FBI was generous enough to provide. When he reaches Will’s motel, he parks in one of the empty spots near the room number Jack gave: 33. It’s not exactly a luxury motel, with only two floors and no sense of aesthetic beyond lots of white and beige. Hannibal idly wonders if the FBI is paying for Will’s lodging, or if this place was Will’s choosing.

He raps loudly but politely on the door. After several long seconds, he hears a shuffling and the door opens, shedding light on a blinking, sleepy Will Graham.

❝Good morning, Will,❞ he says lightly. ❝May I come in?❞

Will’s eyes, which had stayed locked to his for longer than expected, flit away. His jaw works in a little tick that Hannibal has already come to associate with him. ❝Where’s Crawford?❞

❝Deposed in court. The adventure will be yours and mine today.❞ When Will doesn’t move, Hannibal pointedly glances past him into the dark motel room and then back. ❝May I come in?❞

Will’s jaw works again as his eyes flit across Hannibal, but when it becomes obvious that there is no opportunity to say no, he reluctantly turns away and lets him in.

Hannibal opens the curtains slightly and settles in at the cramped table by the window, letting his eyes stray from Will’s face for the first time since arriving. The man is in a plain white t-shirt and boxers, his curly hair ruffled from sleep. As Will hastily throws the blankets over his bed in some semblance of order and pulls on jeans, Hannibal appreciates the muscles flexing in his arms and legs. He is a very handsome man, no doubt about it. Hannibal could get used to his intriguing intellectual company coming in such pretty packaging.

Will sits down and pours himself a cup of coffee silently.

❝I’m very careful about what I put into my body, which means I end up preparing most meals myself,❞ Hannibal says as he takes the top off Will’s breakfast. ❝A little protein scramble to start the day. Some eggs, some sausage.❞ He sets it on the table and slides it towards Will before opening his own serving.

Will pulls the container towards him and spears a piece of sausage. Hannibal watches him put it in his mouth and hears the satisfying sound of meat crushing between his molars.

❝Mm. It’s delicious, thank you.❞

❝My pleasure.❞

Hannibal pauses despite himself, watching Will scoop the rest of the meal from the container onto his plate. His thank you sounded a little forced, but Hannibal can tell it is from disliking company, not because he dislikes the food; he takes great pride in his culinary prowess above most else. He readies his silverware and chooses his next words with great care.

❝I would apologize for my analytical ambush, but I know I will soon be apologizing again and you’ll tire of that eventually, so I have to consider using apologies sparingly.❞

Will’s response comes so quickly on the heels of his words that he nearly runs over the end of Hannibal’s sentence. ❝Just keep it professional.❞

Will is making eye contact with him again. Hannibal keeps it for only a beat before giving the man space by breaking it first.

❝Or we could socialize, like adults.❞ Hannibal takes a bite and looks at his fork as if it had just held something more interesting than scrambled eggs and human lung sausage. ❝God forbid we become friendly.❞

He looks back up. Will is staring into his coffee, purposefully avoiding eye contact.

❝I don’t find you that interesting,❞ he says coolly, before taking a sip.

Hannibal takes a moment to marvel at the man’s petulance and barbed exterior. But something else is stirring in the depths of his mind: hope. Has he hit the jackpot? Is Will only able — or willing — to sympathize with people he finds _interesting_ , like serial killers?

Hannibal scrutinizes him, hearing his words play over again in his head: _I don’t find you that interesting_. ❝You will,❞ he replies. _You will._

Will says nothing.

Hannibal takes another bite before trying a different course of action. ❝Agent Crawford tells me you have a knack for the monsters.❞

It works instantly. Will looks at him, puts his fork down, and pushes his plate away. ❝I don’t think the Shrike killed that girl in the field,❞ he says, leaning forward on his arms.

Another sprig of hope unfurls in Hannibal’s chest. He puts down his silverware and leans forward against the table to match Will. ❝The devil is in the details. What didn’t your copycat do to the girl in the field? What gave it away?❞

❝ _Everything,_ ❞ Will says emphatically, with a wave of his arm. He reaches up to rub his beard. His eyes are alight in a way that Hannibal hasn’t seen before, his voice nearly cracking with emotion. ❝It’s like he had to show me a negative so that I could see the positive. It...❞ He scrubs his face in frustration and sighs into his hands. ❝That crime scene was practically _gift-wrapped_.❞

Hannibal struggles not to look pleased and tips his head. ❝The mathematics of human behavior — all those ugly variables. Some bad math with this Shrike fellow, huh?❞ But Will has lost interest already. He barely flicks his eyes in Hannibal’s direction and pours himself more coffee. After a pause, Hannibal tries again. ❝Are you reconstructing his fantasies?❞ Will lets out a quiet chuckle. He’s heading in the right direction. ❝What kind of problems does he have?❞

❝Uh, he has a few.❞ Will’s voice is delightfully sardonic.

❝You ever have any problems, Will?❞

Will sets his cup down. He places a hand to his chest as if to mockingly ask, _who, me?_ and says, his voice dripping in amusement and sarcasm, ❝No.❞

❝Of course you don’t. You and I are just alike — problem-free. Nothing about us to feel horrible about.❞ If Will has any inkling as to what Hannibal could be hinting, he doesn’t show it; he is back to focusing on his breakfast. Hannibal pauses again, choosing his words carefully. ❝You know, Will... I think Uncle Jack sees you as a fragile little teacup.❞ The edge of Will’s lips quirks up into a smirk; his eyes are on Hannibal again. ❝The finest china used for only special guests.❞

The smirk on Will’s face breaks into a genuine grin as he chuckles harder than anything Hannibal has heard from him yet. He puts down his fork and leans back in his chair, his shoulders shaking from laughter. Hannibal can’t help it; he lets out a chuckle, too, relieved that this has gone so well and pleased that he could make Will laugh.

Will lets out one last chuckle. ❝How do you see me?❞ he asks, his tone turning serious.

Hannibal contemplates how to answer. Their eyes meet across the table.

_Interesting. Skillful. Overflowing with potential._

_Beautiful._

_Captivating._

❝The mongoose I want under the house when the snakes slither by.❞

Will’s curious expression slowly dissolves into one of slight confusion and contemplation. Hannibal smiles innocently and motions towards his plate.

❝Finish your breakfast.❞

_All in due time, Will. All in due time._


	4. Des nouveaux pères

_**Des nouveaux pères**_  —  _new fathers_

☙ ⛾ ❧

Hannibal is not one for regrets.

He contemplates this as he stands over the woman who lays on the ground at his feet. The life has already left her eyes; that must be why Will tore himself away from her and broke down the door. Her throat has been cut. Not perfectly, but cleanly enough to do the job. There’s fresh blood everywhere. The comforting metallic tang permeates his nostrils.

Garred Jacob Hobbs went for his wife before his daughter. That was a move Hannibal did not expect. But that’s exactly why he called Hobbs in the first place: to see what would happen. He carefully steps around the body and moves slowly into the house, letting Will get ahead of him. There’s nothing he can do to help without a gun or badge, but he knows that isn’t his only or even sole motivation for hanging back.

After all, seeing what happens includes  _everyone_ , even Will.

As he steps into the living room, he gets an answer: an animalistic grunt and a gunshot ring out in quick succession, over the backdrop of a girl gasping and crying out. But then there’s another gunshot, and another, and then two more, and then four more after that. Hannibal pauses to allow brief surprise to flit across his face. He hadn’t expected more than one or two gunshots, but that had to have been close to ten.

Hannibal moves with purpose towards where the gunshots came from. In the kitchen, Will huddles over a prone figure, but his head is turned towards the body slumped in the corner. It isn’t until the man's body stops moving that Will looks away and frantically fumbles for the figure on the ground.

Hannibal gives Hobbs a quick once over; it looks as if most of Will’s bullets hit the target, so the extras were not because he was a bad shot. He tucks that away for later. The figure on the ground must be Hobbs’s daughter. Even from the doorway, he can tell that this throat slash is much less clean than the last; Hobbs was rushing, or perhaps Will got to him as he was slashing, or some combination thereof. Blood pulses from the the girl’s throat and runs in red rivets across Will’s hands. He is visibly shaking, without the training or expertise to properly stem the flow, and Hannibal takes pity on him.

He strides over, kneels down, and gently pushes Will’s hands away. He wraps his right hand firmly over the girl’s throat and places the other underneath her neck. With proper pressure on the wound and the weight of her head supported, the blood stops spurting. Instead, it slowly pools under his fingers, pulsing with every beat of her heart. A comforting reminder that he is saving the girl’s life, just as easily as he could take it away.

Beside him, Will continues to shake.

Hannibal has a rare moment of wishing that he had somebody else’s talent — namely, Will’s to be so empathetic. There is only so far his psychiatric training can take him before he is is at a loss as to another person’s thoughts, and he is feeling the loss as Will gasps beside him. What is Will thinking? Is he shaken up because of the dying girl or the ten bullets he put in Hobbs’s chest? Or are there other emotions beneath the surface? Does he regret pulling the trigger?

_Did he enjoy it?_

The girl’s blood continues to pump feebly under his fingers, her throat spasming as she tries to breathe. Will’s loud gasps have faded away, so Hannibal takes the moment to glance at the man crouched next to him. His sweat- and blood-soaked curls are plastered to his head. His hands and lower arms are slick with blood, and his face and glasses are splattered like a crime scene. He hasn’t bothered to wipe any of it away.

Hannibal looks just long enough to burn this masterpiece into his memory forever.

The men sit in silence, Will retreating into his shell and Hannibal contemplating the life blood flowing under his fingers. Soon enough, the EMTs rush in. Hannibal doesn’t let go of the girl’s neck until he’s sure they’ve wrapped her throat properly, then follows the EMTs out of the house. He doesn’t look at Will as they pass him. Hannibal is the first into the ambulance after the girl on the stretcher — Abigail Hobbs, he’s been told — followed by the other two EMTs, both younger men who seem grateful to have his previous surgeon expertise.

The ride is chaotic even without the wailing sirens on the ambulance. The EMTs point to a place where Hannibal can sit down and strap in, then hurry around to different cabinets and equipment as the ambulance rattles down the road. There isn’t much he can do anymore, so he retreats into his memory palace. Except now there’s a new room, one where gunshots echo off the walls and Will shakes in a pool of somebody else’s blood.

☙ ⛾ ❧

Hannibal sits in the waiting room, half in his memory palace and half aware of his surroundings, until he gets notice that Abigail is out of surgery. He knows just how odd it is that he is let in to visit her. Usually hospitals only take immediate family or spouses as visitors, especially so soon after surgery. But she has no family left, no parents, no sympathetic relatives, nothing. Perhaps it is because he saved her life, perhaps it something else, but whatever the reason, they let him in.

Abigail looks so fragile, strapped to a million wires and a breathing tube, a huge bandage across the left side of her neck. Her pale skin is ashen, eyelashes delicate against her closed eyes. She is an orphan, permanently scarred and left for dead. Unconscious. Ill and alone.

It is in this moment that Hannibal feels as close to regret as he thinks he is capable. Not regret, of course, but a recognition that he is partially responsible for what has happened. He gave into his curiosity. He held her life in his hands and stole her from the jaws of death. Those actions would give anybody a certain amount of responsibility.

He pulls a chair up to her bedside. Then he reaches out and places a gentle hand on hers. Hannibal isn’t sure what he had thought would happen, but this...this wasn’t it.

The daughter of a cannibal, orphaned by Will and brought back to life by Hannibal. There’s something poetic about it, something tangible that connects him and Will now, outside of Jack’s request to profile and keep on eye on him. Almost like a surrogate daughter. Hannibal has never had any interest in children, but Abigail, as young as she is, is nearly an adult. He’s never wanted for money. He knows he could easily support her.

A surrogate daughter. He almost likes the idea of that.

Especially if she turns out to be similar to her father.

Hannibal shrugs his jacket off. Then he settles back into the chair, places his hand over Abigail’s, and closes his eyes. It is the first time that he can let the exhaustion of the past few days hit him. It has been a whirlwind ever since Jack Crawford showed up at his house: first the meeting with Will, then staging the body for him, then heading back to Minnesota within 24 hours to go with him on FBI rounds, and now this...

When Hannibal wakes, it is much later. The room has darkened as the sun heads for the horizon. There, on the other side of Abigail’s bed, is Will. The man looks angelic in his sleep, the tension gone from his face and shoulders. It puts a slight smile on Hannibal’s lips as he closes his eyes again. No need to worry about Abigail when she has them at her side, guarding her from harm.

Guardians. He and Will as guardians.

He could get used to that.


End file.
